


Jasmine and Marigold

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, And thoughtless about race too, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys can be casually sexist at times, Caretaking, F/M, Friendship, Gift Fic, Injury Recovery, Jossed, Nausea, POV Third Person Limited, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, canonical character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wolfgang fails to cope, but fortunately, he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jasmine and Marigold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DigitalMeowMix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DigitalMeowMix/gifts).



> Thanks to Scribe for Bollywood consultation. Lyric translation cribbed off several versions on the internet.

When Félix’s eyes finally open, Wolfgang is looking straight at him, but it takes a while to understand what he’s seeing. It isn’t until Félix makes a hoarse sound, garbled by the tube in his throat, that Wolfgang moves: one hand seeks out Félix’s shoulder to reassure and keep him still, the other reaches for the button to summon a nurse, while his eyes stay locked on his friend’s.

Then there’s a flurry of medical activity; a doctor and two assistants bustle around the bed, blocking Félix from view. Wolfgang retreats to the corner and keeps quiet, prepared to threaten anyone who tries to kick him out of the room, but no one talks to him at all until they’re done. Then they part, revealing the bed like the curtain going up at the beginning of a play, revealing Félix, limp and haggard and looking at him. They’ve taken the mask and tube away, and Félix’s mouth turns up in a faint echo of his usual manic grin.

Wolfgang tries to smile back, but there’s something wrong with his mouth, his face: they’re all twisted up. . .because he’s crying, he realizes when he tastes salt on his lips.

He hadn’t known until this moment that he’d never really believed this moment would come.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“We’re not dead,” is the first thing Félix says to him after the doctor has left them alone. His voice is a scratchy croak, but there’s a note of his trademark glee in it.

“I fucked up,” Wolfgang tells him, forcing the words past the knot in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Félix moves one shoulder in something like a shrug. “Your family. All fucking crazy.”

“ _You’re_ my family,” Wolfgang whispers fiercely, choking on tears— _again,_ can’t stop, _stupid_. “My only family.”

“Two against many,” Félix mumbles, smiling, as his eyes drift shut.

Wolfgang presses Félix’s hand between his own, grits his teeth, and refuses to smell the aroma of sun-baked flowers and strong coffee.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“When are we going to India?” Félix asks.

“We’re not,” Wolfgang answers automatically, but Félix looks so horrified that Wolfgang has to reassure him. “Not because of you. You’re going to be fine,” he promises, wishing he believed in God—any god—so that he could pray it isn’t a lie. “When you’re back on your feet, we can go anywhere you want.”

Felix frowns suspiciously. He isn’t strong enough to out-stubborn Wolfgang right now, but he might try, and Wolfgang can’t let him exhaust himself that way.

“I don’t need—I don’t want to go to India any more,” he explains.

“Why not?” Félix whispers, then adds, “Never told me. . .why. . .in the first place.”

“No reason.”

“Fucking liar.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“A plan. You had a plan. Didn’t tell me. Secret,” Félix accuses, not bothering—too weak—to dress his hurt up as anger. He’s not wrong, but the irony that _this_ is the betrayal he’s upset about is almost too much for Wolfgang to swallow.

“No. No. It wasn’t like that.”

He really doesn’t want to talk about this, but he owes Félix more than he’ll ever be able to pay. This, at least, he can give.

Resting his forehead in his palm, he mutters, “I met a girl, okay?”

“And so? Must be Tuesday.”

“I liked her.” He can barely force the words out, inadequate as they are.

“Really?” Félix’s hoarse voice cracks in his excitement. Wolfgang looks up to see his friend’s face more animated than it’s been since he woke up. “Not shitting me? A girl. . .you’d go. . .for her? She’s there?”

Face burning, Wolfgang nods. As miserable as he is, he’s grateful that Félix is so quick to understand. He’s not sure he could handle hearing his friend dismiss _her_ as just another one-night stand.

“Where. . .meet her?”

_In my dreams. In her bedroom in Bombay. At her wedding. In the pool. On a sunny rooftop in the rain in Berlin._

“It’s complicated.”

Félix rolls his eyes. Despite everything, Wolfgang feels a little stab of happiness seeing him look so much like his usual self.

“She hot?”

“It doesn’t matter, all right?” he snaps. “It’s over. Actually, it never really started, but now it’s over.”

“Fuck. No.” Félix’s teasing manner is wiped away by concern. “Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Wolfgang gets up and stalks out of the room before Félix can work himself up to an argument. It’s safer for everyone that way.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Sometimes he can hear them in the back of his mind, like voices in the next room. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of prison walls or sun-baked sand; or tastes unfamiliar spices on his tongue; or feels cold salt spray on his face. Music creeps in, especially; each time he catches himself nodding along to the beat of a tune he isn’t hearing with his ears, he fills with panicked rage.

The most dangerous times are when he’s just on the edge of sleep. He stays away from alcohol, because it might knock him out eventually, but it would strip his control away first, and he can’t afford that. Instead, he charms some sleeping pills out of one of the senior nurses, who thinks he’s _sweet_ to spend so much time at his friend’s bedside, clucks at him to take care of himself, and proves susceptible to his smile.

(Félix notices her motherly flirting and grins at Wolfgang, wiggling his eyebrows, every time she comes to check on him.)

The pills work, as far as Wolfgang can tell. He sleeps like a stone and wakes up groggy and stiff-necked from not rolling over enough in the night, but if he dreams, he doesn’t remember.

He’s mostly learned how to keep them out of his head when he’s awake—how to actually not think about them, as opposed to _trying_ not to think about them, which is really just another way of thinking about them. There’s a trick to it. You have to become totally absorbed in your own surroundings, and avoid getting caught up in any strong emotions.

Probably he should take up yoga. Ha.

(Maybe he’ll really do it, just to see the look on Félix’s face when he finds out.)

Sometimes, though. When he’s alone in the cheap hotel room he’s camping out in because maybe no one would kick down his door if he went home, and maybe Whispers can find him no matter where he hides, but he mostly feels safe enough to sleep there. Or when Félix sleeps for hours and Wolfgang doesn’t feel like watching yet another movie.

Sometimes he gets bored. And that’s a problem, because then it’s hard to keep his mind from wandering.

“So, what, you’re just going to hide from us forever? Is that your plan? Because I’m really not sure it works that way,” Lito says in Wolfgang’s ear, startling him halfway out of the uncomfortable plastic chair on a surge of adrenaline with his fists raised.

Wolfgang manages not to actually deck him (it would be a real punch, tangible, just like he felt the soft warmth of _her_ mouth when they kissed— _No, stop_ ). He slumps back down in his seat and concentrates on counting the floor tiles, imagining the ones hidden by the bed. Maybe if he can fill his mind up with something pointless, he can get rid of—

“Kala’s going out of her mind worrying about you, just so you know.”

He clenches his teeth as the name vibrates through him like the chime of a churchbell, sweet and pure and painful. Sunlight dazzles his eyes, but he blinks it away.

“I’m not doing it to hurt her,” he says, not looking up. “Or any of you.”

“Well, thank you very much, that makes a big difference. Maybe you’d like to tell her so yourself?”

“No.”

“What happened to the idea of fixing your mistakes?”

“I can’t fix what I did,” says Wolfgang. “Anyway, that wasn’t a mistake. I did what I had to do. Trying to—to be with her, that was my mistake.”

“No, no, no, you don’t mean that!” Lito isn’t acting any more; now he’s genuinely upset. The man displays his emotions even more easily and loudly than Félix does, which is really saying something. “You love her, that’s not a mistake. Love is the most important thing there is. It’s salvation.”

“Not if you love the wrong person. She deserves better than me.”

“Probably true,” Lito agrees. “So, you have two choices: you can make her miserable—and, by the way, also yourself—or you can make yourself into a better man.”

Wolfgang shakes his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“Of course not. But doesn’t she deserve a man who can vanquish _la Parka Negra_?”

“What the hell is that?” asks Wolfgang, despite himself. He understands Lito’s words as though they’re German, but the name is just a name to him.

“Hernando has a theory that _la Parka Negra_ is a symbol of the fear we’re afraid to face, the thing that keeps us from becoming what we know we can become.” A fond smile lights up Lito’s face. “Hernando has a theory about everything. Even pro wrestling. It’s one of the things I love about him.”

Wolfgang clenches his fists, squashing down the urge to punch the actor right in his square, artfully-stubbled jaw. They’re not the same, the two of them. Lito only had to face up to his own cowardice, and he got to ride in and be a hero. He doesn’t know a damn thing about blood and bullets, the smell of death, the look on _her_ face as she saw carnage for the first time, saw Wolfgang for what he really is. . .

“I can’t fix the past,” he snarls. “I can’t change what I am.”

“Who. . . ?” Félix rasps, and Wolfgang nearly jumps out of his skin. Félix’s eyes are open; he frowns groggily. “Talking to?”

“Nobody.” Wolfgang squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them, it’s not a lie.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

He doesn’t swim any more; stepping into a pool would be too strong an invitation for his mind to go where he can’t let it go.

Instead, he takes up running. It’s aerobic, it’s free, it doesn’t tie him down to a gym or even a predictable route. Running takes enough effort, especially if he pushes himself, that he can narrow his focus to keeping up his speed; the burn in his thighs, calves, lungs; the wind on his sweaty face; the next street crossing.

It also seems like a skill worth improving, with the way things are. There’s less chance that he’ll to have to swim for his life.

 

 

                                 *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Félix has gotten just enough stronger to be bored, but not enough to actually do anything. He’s restless, he’s full of questions, and of the two subjects Wolfgang doesn’t want to talk about, one is painful only to himself.

“What does she do?”

“She’s a scientist,” says Wolfgang. “A chemist.”

“Ooh, brains plus beauty. She’s beautiful, right?”

“Yes."

“Come on,” says Félix impatiently. “What does she look like?”

Wolfgang fixes his eyes on the bed, slowly mapping the shape of Félix’s feet and legs under the sheet, the almost- _fleur-de-lis_ pattern of his hospital smock, the IV tube and the monitor wire and the other tube—wire?—that he’s not sure what it’s for. He can’t let himself picture her; that would be too dangerous. It’s pretty fucking stupid to be going even this far, but. . .

“She’s kind of small. Slender. Long hair, lots of it. Black, just a little bit curly.”

“You sound like a police report,” Félix gripes.

“What do you want, a romance novel?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll buy you one.”

Félix sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine, okay. What’s her name?”

“None of your business.”

“Shit, come on, you have to at least tell me her _name_. You do _know_ her name, right?” When Wolfgang doesn’t respond, Félix pushes, the bastard. “Have you even talked to this woman?”

“I’ve talked to her.”

“Just talked?” asks Félix suggestively.

“Not just talked, we. . . _really_ talked, you know?”

Félix nods, looking impressed—he knows exactly how big a deal it is, for Wolfgang to talk about anything real with anyone but him.

“And we kissed,” Wolfgang adds, not remembering, not imagining, _not._

“Okay, okay, so that’s something, at least. So, how did you meet her?”

“I saw her walking down the street, and I. . .I wanted her. More than I. . .I was actually with another girl at the time, having dinner, we’d just—and it was nice, nothing special—and then I saw _her_ and. . .and it was totally different. I’d never seen her before in my life, and I _knew._ ” Involuntarily, he clutches his fist against his stomach, where that stupid fucking certainty still sits like a steel core. “She was _mine._ ”

She’d hate to hear him say it that way, she’d be angry, and he understands why, but she’s not here to hear him, and it’s the truth, and Félix doesn’t judge him. Even when he should.

“So, what? You ditched your date and ran down the street after her and swept her into your arms?”

“I gatecrashed her wedding. Naked.”

Félix cracks up laughing until he gasps and has to press his hand to his side, but apparently the pain isn’t enough to dull his enjoyment of the joke. And Wolfgang should be pleased by that: he said it that way to be funny, and it’s a fucking relief to see Félix laugh again. But what he actually feels is self-disgust, because ending it is one thing, and he had his reasons, but what kind of shitheel is he, to make it into a cheap joke?

Félix stops laughing when he registers Wolfgang’s change in mood—not hard, it’s probably painted across his face, and anyway, Félix knows him well.

“Hey. Hey. Wolfie.” He reaches clumsily for Wolfgang’s wrist. “It isn’t a joke. I’m sorry. Tell me.”

“I really did,” says Wolfgang softly. “Not on purpose, but I was there. At her wedding. It was all flowers and colors and smoke and there were a million people staring at us. And I was naked. From the pool. I was swimming, and then I was at her wedding.”

Félix shakes his head, bewildered. “I don’t get it.”

“Just pretend I’m telling you a fairy tale, okay?”

“Okay. So, once upon a time. . .” Félix prompts obligingly.

“Once upon a time, there was a safecracker who started seeing a beautiful woman everywhere he looked. Always the same woman, but she’d vanish if he looked too long. Or he’d hear her talking to him but he wouldn’t be able to find her. Or she’d be there, singing and laughing, but he was drunk, it was a dream, because she wasn’t there, in a club in Berlin, she was somewhere hot and smelly and sunny, and _he_ was there _with_ her.”

Félix’s eyebrows draw down, worried now, but he waits to hear the rest of the story, and _shit,_ Wolfgang never says this much about _anything,_ he doesn’t _do_ stories, but it feels like a cramp easing, to finally _tell_.

“But then there was one time, and I wasn’t drunk or high or asleep. In the hot tub after swimming, my mind was clear, you know? I was relaxed, I felt good, and then suddenly—I was having sex. With three people. I could see them, hear them, feel them. . .I knew their _names._ And then I was at her wedding. In Bombay. I just showed up. Still naked.”

“ _Sounds_ like a drug trip,” says Félix, but he isn’t laughing.

“It wasn’t. Hand to my heart, I swear. I thought. . .no, you know what? I never thought I was going crazy. I knew it was really happening. No doubt.”

“That’s how crazy people feel,” Félix points out.

Scents and sounds and tastes jostle at the edges of his perception: Gasoline fumes and dust; sewing machines whirring over women’s voices; sea spray; raw fish with lime; the soft clatter of typing; spiced, milky tea. All of them just as real as the cold white tiles and antiseptic smell and beeping machines of this stupid hospital—he can tune them out but he can’t wish them out of existence.

He shrugs. “I don’t think I’m crazy.”

He doesn’t deserve the excuse of _crazy_ , either.

Félix nods and gestures for him to go on.

“I’ve talked to her. Not just talked. Not just her. There’s seven of them, but I haven’t really met most of them. But we can—I don’t know, sometimes it’s like being in two places at once. Sometimes I go where someone else is, or I—I _am_ them, I’m in their body, but I’m still myself at the same time.”

“You’ve been in her body?”

“No!” Just the idea makes him cringe. “Not with her. But I—I helped out this one guy by taking over in a fistfight, and he took over for me when. . .” But no, he can’t tell Félix about how Lito helped him, or why. “Anyway. That’s how it is. I don’t know why, or how, or what that. . .makes me.”

“It makes you a telepath,” says Félix, an awed smile spreading slowly over his face. “A real, live X-man.”

Wolfgang snorts and shakes his head, shaking a little with relief. “You better not start calling me Wolverine.”

“Not a chance, Professor W.” Félix smirks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” says Wolfgang, which is both true and a lie, but he does owe Félix the apology. “I didn’t think. . .I mean, it’s pretty crazy, right?”

“It’s pretty fucking awesome!”   Félix looks like he might start bouncing off the walls, if he weren’t too weak to stand right now. “Shit, Wolfie, you hit the jackpot. Superpowers _and_ a superpowered girlfriend!”

And this, right here, is why he shouldn’t be telling Félix about any of this _now_.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” says Wolfgang shortly.

Predictably, Félix waves that away as not worth arguing over. “So, when do I get to meet her?”

“You don’t. I’m never going to see her again. Or any of them.”

“Why?” asks Félix, bewildered. “What happened? Did the magic stop working?”

“No.” Wolfgang stares down at his hands. “I just—I can’t. It’s better if I don’t.”

“What? No, no, no, that is the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard, you can’t just get rid of your magical fairytale princess,” Félix insists. “Let me talk to her. Come on, call her up, right now.”

“I can’t. That’s not the way it works. And anyway, I’m not going to.”

His hands are so clean; no trace of blood anywhere; but then, there never was.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

It’s surprisingly easy not to think about sex. He’s swung suddenly from being half-hard all the time, wet dreams at night alternating with graphic daydreams, to. . .almost nothing.

It probably ought to freak him out; he can’t remember being this uninterested since before Gymnasium. He’s used to having sex always at the back of his mind, to that little nudge of arousal whenever he sees a woman in a short skirt. Masturbating in the shower has always been part of his morning routine, even when he’s gotten laid the night before. But now his body just isn’t interested.

Except when he passes a display of ready-to-plant marigolds outside a florist’s, or catches a whiff of curry and fried bread from the open door of an Indian restaurant, or glimpses a red shawl, a swirl of dark hair, a bare, brown wrist. Once a coffee shop gives him the extra-dark-roast crap by mistake; one black, burnt-tasking mouthful and he’s painfully, desperately hard, so turned on he can barely breathe or think and the slightest breeze on his skin is like a scorching caress.

He can’t stand to touch himself when he gets like that, even though it kills him not to. He turns the shower on to pure cold and stands under the sharp, frigid spray, gasping through clenched teeth, imagining the bite of a whip across his bare back and thighs until he’s tense and shivering but no longer aroused.

He learns to keep his eyes straight ahead when he’s running or walking in the city. He works out routes that avoid Indian restaurants. He stops drinking coffee; it’s unhealthy anyway.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“What are we going to do about Steiner?” Félix asks.

“Don’t worry about that,” says Woflgang, but this time, Félix refuses to let it go.

“Does Sergei know? Is he backing Steiner on this? Have you seen either of them?”

“I took care of Steiner, okay? You don’t need to worry.”

“Took care of him? Took care of him _how?_ ” Félix’s voice rises in agitation, despite his weakness. “Did you give him the diamonds?”

“I didn’t—”

“Because even if you did, he _shot_ me, we both saw him and he knows it, he’s can’t just shake hands and pretend—”

“I blew him away with a rocket launcher,” Wolfgang says flatly. Félix’s eyes go wide, and he tries to smile— _big joke, Wolfie, ha ha_ —but Wolfgang keeps talking, cold, relentless. “I killed the four guys he had with him, I blew up his car as he was trying to get away. Then I went to Sergei’s house and took down nine of _his_ guys, and I emptied my gun into Sergei and stood there and watched him die.”

By now, Félix is gaping at him in silent horror. Good. Wolfgang meant to horrify him. The truth is horrible.

He walks out of the hospital and doesn’t look back.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Wolfgang knocks back another shot. He’s lost track of how many this makes, which means he’s making progress. The club's colored lights swim overhead, the faces of the people around him are anonymous blurs, and his thoughts blur and swim, too, mushing together like applesauce.

The music is shit, some grinding, anonymous American thing—seriously, why does anyone play this crap, who wants to dance to it?—but apparently this club is full of idiots, because the floor is packed. Next comes a ballad with stupid lyrics he can’t even make out, some guy whining about love, it would sound so much better in Kala’s voice, he wouldn’t have to worry about the words, he could just watch her eyes, her mouth, as she lingered over the melody, caressing the notes with her tongue, caressing him with her eyes—and shit, this was a mistake, he’s an idiot, but it’s too late now. The music is flooding in through all his pores, crowding his lungs with every breath he takes, pulling his apart his brain, his heart, leaving him flayed open with no defense against the stink of jasmine and the burn of sunlight and the fucking voices.

He smashes the glass against his forehead—not quite empty; drips of booze sting his eyes—and staggers out in the moment of clarity that buys him.

He buys a bottle on the way home; doesn’t even look at what it is, it doesn’t matter, as long as it will make the fucking world go away. He needs it to stop— _he_ needs to _stop_ —and it suddenly occurs to him that he’s got a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom and a bottle of booze in his hand, and isn’t that a classic combination?

It takes him three tries even to get the cap off the bottle because his fingers are numb and clumsy. At least that means he’s got enough alcohol in him that this ought to work. . .or does the amount matter? He’s not really sure how this works, he’s not a chemist—He flinches from the memory of Kala’s small, sure hands filling a syringe, putting together a Molotov cocktail out of cleansers and kitchen spices. Pills. In his palm—but they’re not, his hand won’t tip the bottle.

He watches his hands screw the lid back on and set the bottle on the windowsill. He stops in the act of turning towards the bed and grabs the bottle again. He’s not _that_ drunk—he’s on his feet, for fuck’s sake—he can open a damn bottle. But every time he tries, his hands refuse to behave. The scent of jasmine and marigold rises up around him as he struggles to control his rebellious body, slurring curses.

Finally, in frustration, he tries to raise the bottle straight to his mouth—and it bounces against the far wall instead, spraying pills everywhere.

He stumbles in that direction, but before he can make up his mind whether it’s worth the effort to scrape up the individual pills from the floor, his shins hit the mattress and he sprawls face-down into unconsciousness.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Everything hurts. His skin is too tight and his head throbs and he feels like he’s falling, dizzy with nausea and pain.

He’s not dead. He can’t think why not, and he can’t remember why that’s a bad thing, sour in his mouth; he only knows that something aches inside him, worse than the pounding headache.

He gags on the smell of curry, rolls over and throws up over the side of the bed.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Someone lays a damp cloth on his forehead. Cool. Nice. A delicate hand brushes his cheek. A woman’s voice says something he can’t quite make out; a man answers, just as quietly.

He pries his eyes open as the woman bends over him. He doesn’t know her, although she looks vaguely familiar.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asks.

He doesn’t recognize the room, either, as much as his bleary eyes can make out. It looks like money, but also lived-in. The bed he’s lying on is giant and weirdly comfortable; the sheets smell like sex and sweat.

“I don’t think he has a fever,” says the woman—and yes, he has seen her before, that’s Lito’s. . .whatever she is, the one he helped Lito rescue from that abusive asshole. Dani, that’s her name.

“It can’t hurt to check.” A man comes into Wolfgang’s line of sight, passing Dani a thermometer, which she slips into Wolfgang’s mouth. Dark beard, dark eyes, good-looking in a kind of nerdy way: Wolfgang has definitely never seen this guy before, but suddenly he knows that his name is Hernando and he’s Lito’s lover.

He touches Wolfgang’s face, more intimately and lingeringly that Dani did, cupping it in his palm, stroking his thumb over Wolfgang’s cheek.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

“That better be true,” comes Lito’s voice from somewhere behind Hernando. Wolfgang twitches and focuses his blurry eyes to see Lito standing a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression splitting the difference between a frown and a smirk. “And by the way, thank you so much for waiting until you were puking your guts up before coming to visit me. I appreciate that very much.”

Wolfgang opens his mouth to apologize, or protest, or both, but nearly loses the thermometer. Anyway, he’d better not let Lito’s lovers see him talking to thin air. He meets Lito’s eyes and gives him a little shrug. Lito snorts, amused.

“Do you think you could drink some juice?” Hernando offers, taking the thermometer and peering at it. “Or water? It’s important for you to stay hydrated.”

Wolfgang grunts noncommittally; Hernando clucks his tongue as he goes out of the room.

“Listen,” says Lito. “I’m the last person who should give you shit about the way you’re handling this, because I did a lot of the same things myself, and I seriously mean I j _ust_ did them, but that’s also why I know what I’m talking about. You don’t want to die. What you want is to stop fucking things up and then having to live with yourself and your fucked-up life. You think it would be easier to just stop existing. Stop the pain. Stop trying. And you know what? It would be easier. It’s a very easy way to lose. And then you’re a loser, permanently. That’s how everyone will remember you. Do you want _her_ to remember you as a loser?”

“Better a loser than a monster,” Wolfgang mumbles into the pillow.

“You don’t get to choose that. Not if you’re dead.”

“Not dead,” Wolfgang points out.

“Of course not,” says Dani soothingly, patting his hair, at the same time as Lito says, “No, and isn't that very interesting?”

A muzzy memory surfaces of frustration, watching his own hands throw a bottle against a wall.

“You. . .did you. . . ?”

Lito snorts. “Don’t be stupid.”

But now Hernando is back, and he and Dani lever Wolfgang up into a semi-sitting position so that he can drink from the glass Hernando offers him.

“Try just little sips to start with,” Hernando suggests, sitting on the bed right beside Wolfgang and stroking his shoulder with a gentle, casual affection that Wolfgang has never received in his own body, except from Félix, who expressed it in rough hugs and shoulder-punches and hair-ruffling, and will never touch him again.

“I’m so lucky to have them,” says Lito. “Both of them, they bring me such joy. I would never have expected any of this, but you don’t get to pick who you love. It just hits you, and you have to grab onto it with both hands when it does. Believe me. Everyone needs someone who will take care of them when they’re sick.”

Kala sits on the foot of the bed, haloed in sunlight, the scent of dust and spice and flowers wafting off her.

Wolfgang can’t help the strangled noise that escapes his throat.

“Are you going to throw up again?” The concern in Dani’s voice is mixed with disgust, but her hand touches his shoulder. “Here, let me get you. . .”

But Wolfgang barely hears her; she doesn’t matter; she isn’t real. The only reality is Kala’s luminescent brown eyes and his heart trying to jump out of his chest and into hers.

“I don’t even care if they see me puking,” comes Lito’s voice from far away. “I think that’s what love is. . .”

. . .And then Wolfgang is in _Kala's_ bed, in her light, bright bedroom where he’s been once before. It’s even hotter here, and the smell of curry is thick, but he’s not going to puke in her bed; he’ll die first.

He swallows and takes slow, shallow breaths, squinting to see her against the yellow light that pours in through the open window. There are shadows under her eyes and her lush eyelashes clump damply, but her expression is stern.

“I’ve decided,” she says firmly, although her voice has a wet, wobbly sound. “You’re not a demon, you’re not a pervert. Not a monster, either,” she adds fiercely, cutting him off before he even gets his mouth open. “You’re a stubborn, selfish little boy who doesn’t listen to what he’s told. What did I tell you?”

She plants her hands on her hips, frowning down at him, waiting for an answer. He shakes his head helplessly—just a tiny movement, but it’s enough to make the room lurch sickeningly. Whimpering, he closes his eyes and breathes.

When he looks again, she’s standing over him, an implacable goddess of justice with moist eyes.

“I said I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

“You said that before I—before you knew—before you saw—” He has to close his eyes again, because he can’t bear to look at her, but no, that just makes the images swim up onto the movie screen of his eyelids: blood and broken glass and Sergei’s cringing face as he pulled the trigger. . .

“You didn’t give me a chance to say anything afterwards. No, you decided that you know what’s best for me, what I want. Again.”

“Sorry,” he whispers. It’s nowhere near enough but it’s all he has to offer. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

“Yes, fine, lovely, you’re sorry, so you’re going to keep on punishing yourself, never mind how much you’re hurting me and Félix and the others, yes, that will improve the situation. Selfish little boy.”

He grasps for the ragged edges of self-control, he’s too close to the edge—of falling apart, falling into he doesn’t know what—he’s too exhausted to think, and he’s drowning in feelings he doesn’t want and can’t handle, but if he doesn’t hang onto her, he’ll fall for sure, into somewhere dark and irrevocable.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he confesses.

The silence that follows makes his stomach churn. Eyes still squeezed shut, he waits to feel the air change from Bombay-hot to Berlin-dank.

The rim of a glass touches his lip; her hand supports his head, raising him enough to drink. Cool water fills his mouth with the taste of mint. He swallows and sips again, greedy for the relief that swells his parched tongue.

“First, you sleep,” says Kala as she lays him down. “And then, when you wake up, you’re going to go apologize to Felix.”

 

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” Félix struggles into a more upright position, his wide, worried eyes searching Wolfgang’s face.

Wolfgang pulls the privacy curtain shut but can’t make himself advance into the room any farther.

“Nothing. I got wasted and woke up with a hangover in Mexico City, and then I was in Bombay, and everyone yelled at me, and then I came here.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Kala nod encouragingly. He swallows and stands his ground.

“Some hangover,” says Félix tentatively.

“You have no fucking idea.”

“Worse than that time with the Ouzo?” Félix teases.

“Fuck you,” Wolfgang chokes, his attempt at a smile failing completely. He’s shaking, his eyes are stinging, but he forces the words out. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I fucked up and got you hurt, and then I thought I could—I tried to fix it, and I—”

“And you did,” Félix insists. “Right? We’re okay now? No one’s coming after us for—for anything?”

Wolfgang swallows until he can rasp, “I think so.” But then he remembers Will and Riley and Whispers, the helicopter and the road, the fishing boat. “Or, not for any of that. I might be in other trouble, but that has nothing to do with you—”

“Of course it does,” Félix interrupts. “Your enemies are my enemies. Remember what is best in life?”

 _To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you._ To splatter their blood all over the expensive carpet, to smell smoke and shit and blood and death, to feel the gun kick in your hand over and over, to watch them die and feel nothing, not even relief—

“No. It isn’t. Not that. I don’t—” His throat clogs. “I don’t want you to do what I did. I don’t want you to be like me.”

“A depressing bastard who doesn’t know how to have fun?” Félix teases softly, but his eyes are solemn as they hold Wolfgang’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll never sink that low.”

He lifts his hand as far as he can given the tubes and wires, and holds it out to Wolfgang. But Wolfgang stays frozen in place until Kala gently nudges his shoulder. He takes the three steps to the bed, where he sits carefully and takes his brother’s hand—and then something snaps in him, and he’s hugging Félix, tubes and pillows in the way, his face pressed against Félix’s too-bony shoulder, soaking the flimsy cotton hospital smock with his tears, and Félix is hanging onto him as hard as he can.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“Okay, so how are you doing at winning over your Indian princess?”

“She’s not a princess, and I’m not trying to win her over.”

“You know how much that surprises me, brother? Not one little bit. You’re lucky you have me to help you with these things.”

Wolfgang’s always taken pride in his self-control, counted on it, but now he has to blink and swallow before he can speak, and his voice still comes out thicker than it should.

“I know.”

He adjusts the pillows behind Félix’s shoulders, which conveniently keeps his face turned away.

“Right, so.” Félix clears his throat. “What’s the problem? Did you have a fight? Did you offend her? Did she get a good look at your nude carcass and flee in disgust?”

Wolfgang can’t help snorting at the memory of Kala’s face as she tried to keep from ogling him; the embarrassed indignation of her voice calling him _a dangerous pervert demon who never seems to have any clothes on._

“Right, exactly.” Félix elbows him lightly, clumsily in the ribs, grinning. “Because what woman in her right mind would turn her back on all that?” With the hand that no longer has medical equipment attached to it, he gestures at the length of Wolfgang’s body.

Wolfgang ducks his head in reflexive self-consciousness—he _knows_ he has a good body, he takes care to keep it that way, but he never knows what to do with compliments. Especially from Félix, who has doubts about his own looks; especially _now._

“I showed up naked at her _wedding,”_ Wolfgang protests. “And then in her bed.”

“Lucky girl. Wait, wedding? You said that before. Is she married, is that why—?”

“I hope she’s married by now. I told her—but she won’t listen—”

“You _told_ her to marry the other guy?” Félix squeaks in outraged disbelief.  “Are you crazy? No, no, you’re doing it for _her,_ of course you are, you fucking bastard.”

He grabs Wolfgang by the shirt front with both hands and actually shakes him, careless of the tube still attached to his left arm. There’s no strength in his grip at all—it's all Wolfgang can do to hold him still without hurting him.

“Stop, stop, don’t—take it easy—”

“Don’t—you stupid fucking—you love her, for the love of God,” Félix pants wildly. “That’s a _good_ thing, you’re _allowed_ to get what you want and just fucking _enjoy_ it for once—fuck you, _why_ would you throw away your chance?”

“Because she hates violence!” Wolfgang yells, stunning him to a sputtering halt. “She’s gentle and good and she begged me not to kill Sergei, and then she made a tear-gas grenade out of kitchen cleansers and spice powder to keep them from killing me, and then she watched as I—as I—right in front of her.”

He doesn’t know how he goes from holding Félix by the shoulders to leaning against him, with Félix’s long arms wrapped carefully around him. He’s disgusted with himself for being so weak, on top of everything else wrong with him—he’ll pull himself together in a second—he will—he’s not fucking six years old. . .

Stroking Wolfgang’s back like this is something they do all the time, Félix says, “Well, it sounds like this is going to be easier than I thought. Obviously she’s already head over heels for you.”

Wolfgang makes an animal groan in the back of his throat.

“You don’t get it,” he bites out.

“No, you don’t get it,” says Félix firmly. “That’s all right. She’s the smart one, you said. She’ll get it through your rock-skull.”

Wolfgang is too exhausted to protest; it’s all he can do to fight off the smell of sun and dust and jasmine, let alone tell Félix to quit treating him like a child, or to stop acting like one.

“Hey, what’s her name, again?”

“Kala.” The name slips off his tongue before he can think to be careful. It’s too late, anyway.

“Kala. ” Félix savors the syllables like an expensive wine.

“He’s looking much better,” she says, and Wolfgang jerks his head up to see her looking down at them from the far side of the bed. “So are you. Not that that’s saying much.”

All he can do is stare at her. He has no idea what to say or do, what she expects from him. . .

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your brother?” she asks, playing prim and haughty—but he’s pretty sure she’s _only_ playing. And inviting him to play along. So he pulls himself together enough to obey.

“Félix. . .um.” How do you introduce an invisible person? “This is, uh. Kala.”

“Dandekar,” she prompts, even more prim, but with her eyes definitely sparkling now.

“Kala Dandekar,” he corrects himself, the name suddenly as familiar as his own, as he speaks it for the first time. “Félix Brenner.”

Félix’s eyes go comically round. “She’s here?”

Wolfgang nods, then opens his hand in Kala’s direction; Félix looks that way, then peers, then shakes his head.

“But she’s—uh, sorry, _you’re_ really here?” he corrects himself.

“Yes,” Wolfgang and Kala say at the same time.

“Wow. Well, uh, hello. Welcome. Make yourself comfortable—wait, can you sit down? And we only have one chair, anyway.”

Chuckling, Kala sits on the edge of the bed. “Hello, Félix. I’m pleased to finally meet you. And I’m glad to see you’re recovering.”

Wolfgang is so swept away by her presence, by her laughter, that he doesn’t notice that she’s waiting for him until she raises her eyebrows at him expectantly.

He hastily tells Félix, “She says she’s pleased to meet you. She’s happy you’re getting better.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” says Félix grandly, laying his hand on his heart. “Uh, where is she?”

“She’s sitting on the bed. There.”

“Best seat in the house.” With a grin, Félix settles back against the pillows, stretching out his arm as though Kala might lean against it—although in fact, she’s perched upright a foot further down the bed.

Kala looks at him, then rolls her eyes at Wolfgang, shaking her head. “Oh, I see, he’s the charming one?”

He knows how to respond to teasing, to flirting; he can, in fact, be charming when he wants to; he’s always made better time with women than Félix. But this is—he doesn’t know what to do with this. This is standing in front of that fucking S & D safe all over again, except that instead of a ticking clock, there’s a very good chance that a wrong move will just blow him straight to hell, and he can’t—he _can’t_ —he doesn’t know _how—_

“Wait,” Félix says, anxiously. “I’m not sticking my arm through her or anything, am I?”

Kala throws back her head and laughs. The simplicity of it startles Wolfgang into laughter of his own, and the two of them feed on each other, not laughing at the joke any more, but just because it feels good, and soon, Félix, shaking his head at his ridiculous friend, joins in too.

 

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

 

“Oh, Jesus, I give up, just kill me,” Félix groans. He sags against Wolfgang, who is already half-carrying him.

“To the bathroom and back. That was the deal,” says Wolfgang, but Félix just hangs on his shoulder and whines, “What deal? Nobody asked my opinion.”

“Keep going, you’re doing very well. It’s all right to go slowly,” Kala says, although, of course, she knows Félix can’t hear her. At least the nurses have left Wolfgang to help Félix with his afternoon exercise unsupervised, so Wolfgang can translate for her.

He does so, adding, “Come on, you don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”

“Anything for a pretty lady.” Félix’s attempt at a charming grin looks more like a grimace, but he shuffles gamely forward.

“He really is doing well,” Kala tells Wolfgang. “I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes—”

“I know,” he says.

“He’ll be all right.” She doesn’t know that, even the doctors don’t know that, but somehow, hearing her say it is reassuring anyway.

“I know.” He meets her eyes and they exchange a smile.

“What do you know?” asks Félix. “You two telling secrets? Not polite.”

“She says you’re a lazy bastard and I should make you run laps tomorrow,” Wolfgang teases.

“Fuck you.” Félix slaps the bathroom door, then leans against the wall, catching his breath. He’s trembling and sweating, but he’s standing on his own two feet, and he even manages a smile. “I’m sure Kala is. . .too well-raised. . .to use that kind of language.”

“Don’t know where you got such a crazy idea,” says Wolfgang, straight-faced.

Kala squeaks indignantly, then recovers her dignity and retorts, “At least I know how to dress when I pay a visit.”

Wolfgang’s face goes as hot as if he’s been dunked in boiling water.

“What? What did she say?”

“Nothing,” mumbles Wolfgang.

“Bullshit,” says Félix, at the same time as Kala says, “Coward,” so Wolfgang hastily repeats, “She knows how to dress to pay a visit.”

“Oh, I see.” Félix’s eyebrows go up and he wiggles them at Wolfgang, just to leave no doubt that he understands the joke. Then he cranes past him to say in Kala’s general direction, “Well, you don’t have to put on clothing on my account.”

Wolfgang can’t help snorting at the look on her face: shocked mortification, a lot like the way she looked when he turned up naked in her bed that first time, except that she’s biting her lip like she’s fighting back a smile.

He can’t tell if she’s more amused or more embarrassed, though, so when he swats Félix’s shoulder and hisses, “Asshole!” it comes out sounding angrier than he intended.

Félix just laughs. “What? For all I know she’s naked over there.”

“Shut up!” Wolfgang insists, really afraid that his friend has crossed the line this time. But Kala’s smile breaks loose as she rolls her eyes in mock-despair.

“No wonder you’re such good friends, you’re both pigs. Go on, go on, translate!” she orders, waving her hands in a shooing motion at him as he hesitates.

“She says we’re both pigs, so thank you, Mr. Smooth Operator.”

Félix laughs, then starts grunting and snorting, leaning on Wolfgang’s shoulder so he can face Kala—or the general area of where she’s standing, anyway. Wolfgang pushes him back against the wall, trying not to be too rough, which, only encourages Félix to ham it up, snickering mixed in with the pig-noises as he flails against Wolfgang’s grip.

“Shut up!”

“What, am I embarrassing you in front of your girlfriend?” Félix taunts.

“She’s not my—” Wolfgang snaps his mouth shut. Félix, seeing the look on his face, goes quiet.

Kala isn’t laughing any more. Maybe she’s gone; maybe she’s waiting for him to. . .say the right thing, do the right thing, whatever the hell that is.

“Come on, break’s over, you still have the other half of the course to run.” He peels Félix off the wall and drags him forward, muscles trembling with the effort to handle him gently when Wolfgang’s body is flooded with fight-or-flight adrenaline. He fixes his eyes on their four feet and the square tiles ahead and doesn’t glance behind him.

It’s slower going back; Félix is running out of steam, each step a struggle, now. He pants harshly in Wolfgang’s ear as Wolfgang fights to keep his own breathing slow and easy. Not panicking, he’s not panicking, he’s not—

“I’m not marrying Rajan,” says Kala without warning, and he almost drops Félix on the floor.

“Hey!” Félix protests.

“Sorry, sorry, I—I tripped,” Wolfgang stammers, steadying him. “Come on, right foot now, don’t be a slacker.”

“You were right the first time.” Kala’s voice is cool, but Wolfgang’s pretty sure it isn’t just his own heart he feels pounding. “I didn’t want to marry him, even before you came along, and some things I’ve learned since then. . .Well, it’s impossible, so I’ve called off the wedding. And you don’t get a say, because you don’t want to be with me, so it’s really none of your business what I do. Just in case you wondered.”

He does look at her now—he has to—but all he sees is the toss of her long hair as she turns her back on him.

And then she’s gone.

“What?” Félix demands. “Did she say something? What did she say?”

“Shut up and keep walking.”

 

 

                                     *                                  *                                  *

 

 

Kala decrees, “No violent movies for people who are recovering from being shot,” and gives Wolfgang an extensive list of Bollywood films to download. Félix whines about the romantic-comedy plots, pokes fun at the acting, and asks why the characters keep suddenly breaking into song-and-dance numbers in the middle of conversations. He grins gleefully with each criticism.

Watching Félix watch Bollywood is entertaining all by itself, but Wolfgang also enjoys the movies themselves more than he expected to. The silliness, the bright colors and crowds of men and women dancing, the music, the. . .joy. Somehow, it gets inside him, expanding like foam between his ribs, easing the tension in his muscles. He can almost float on this feeling, squashed beside Félix on the bed, balancing the laptop on his knees so they can both see the screen, with Kala beaming at them from her perch on the plastic chair.

“You’ve seen this one before,” Félix accuses, mock-affronted, elbowing him in the ribs.

“No.”

“Well, you know the songs, anyway. You’re singing along.”

Wolfgang shakes his head, because he’s never heard these songs before, but Félix has never been a guy to let go of a good joke. Or a bad joke.

“Your taste in music just gets worse and worse. What’s next, Taylor Swift?”

Wolfgang punches him—carefully—on the arm, which gets him another elbow-jab in return.

“C’mon, let’s hear it, private performance, just for me. And. . .”

“I don’t know it,” Wolfgang protests, half-laughing, but then he realizes that he _does._ He looks up at Kala, who nods.

“It’s one of my favorites. I’ve seen this movie—I don’t know, a lot of times.” She laughs self-consciously but with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Go ahead, I want to hear you.”

That was exactly the wrong thing to say, because now his heart is pounding and his face is burning. But Félix has backed up the video to the beginning of the song and is grinning at him expectantly, and Kala—no, he can’t look at her, not now, not if he wants to be able to do this at all.

He resists the urge to clasp his hands like a choirboy, curling them around an invisible microphone at chest height instead, as he takes a breath and opens his mouth.

 _“Oye Haaye Oye_  
_Rang Puredi Rang Rangili_  
_Ladaki Chail Chabili. . .”_

He hears the words he’s singing as meaningless syllables—he’s not even sure if they're Hindi or what—but at the same time, he understands them as German. Not that there’s much to understand in a goofy song whose main point is a peppy tune for dancing.

 _“Capricious, bubbly girl in her colorful clothes,_  
_Her mischievous eyes are a dagger, her good looks a weapon,_  
_When her beauty killed me, then discussions started. . .”_

When he dares to look up from his feet, he sees Kala’s delighted grin. She bounces gently to the music, encouraging him with her eyes and hands. Gradually, the knot in his chest loosens and he feels a smile creeping over his face as the drum-beat takes over his body.

The verse about her lethal beauty repeats, and this time, he sings it straight to her, hamming up the flirtation like the guy in the movie did. She plays along, pantomiming _Who, me?_ with round eyes and hands clasped over her heart. He points to her and nods, and then, remembering that first _discussion_ in her bedroom, he trails his hands down his chest to frame his hips, thrusting just a little. She remembers, too; he sees it in her face, right before she dissolves into laughter with her hands over her mouth.

Joy rises up in him, filling his body like the music, expanding like a rising balloon, making his skin tingle. He wants to laugh, to move, to touch—but instead, he sings, his voice carrying all his feelings out into the world, to her.

On cue, Kala sings along with the women in the movie, “ _My youth is yours in any case, you need not try to steal my beauty_ ,” and begins to dance in place with sinuous movements of her arms and body that make a lie of the nonsensical lyrics, broadcasting _come and get me_ just like her teasing smile.

The dancing in the movie was mostly just bouncy and flirty, but Kala's version is sexy, no question. Or maybe it’s just that everything she does is sexy to him.

When she beckons him to join her, he automatically shakes his head. She shakes hers back at him, scrunching up her face to express disapproval, and beckons again, this time holding out both hands.

He’d do much harder things, to keep her smiling.

 _“Hey!_  
_Since childhood, one guy was crazy in love with her,_  
_His job was to chase all her suitors out of the alley_  
_He considered her the queen of his heart. . ."_

He’s never done this style of dancing before, but it isn’t hard to mirror her motions.

 _"But friends, the girl was dying for some other guy,_  
_One story ended and another began. . ."_

When he realizes what he’s saying, he stumbles over the words—he doesn’t have the right to joke about that. But Kala takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, and he sees reassurance in her eyes.

When the music ends, they stand facing each other breathlessly, not quite laughing, not quite touching. He’s dizzy with desire but also calm; he could stay like this forever and be perfectly content.

“Kiss her!” Félix’s urgent, gleeful hiss jerks him out of whatever dream-state he’s been in, back to awareness of the cold, white hospital room and and of all the uncertainty and awkwardness and shame that he somehow managed to forget for a little while.

As Kala blinks up at him, startled, Wolfgang takes a step back, dropping his eyes to his feet.

“No, come on, you can do this,” Félix insists. When Wolfgang doesn’t respond, he asks, “She’s still here, right?” and then, without waiting for an answer, wheedles, “Kala, help a guy out here, huh? You can see he wants to, he’s just shy or—or something. If you leave now he’ll be a miserable sulky bastard for who knows how long, and I’ll have to put up with him. You wouldn’t do that to poor old Félix, would you?”

Kala puts her hand under Wolfgang’s chin and gently tips his face up until he meets her eyes.

“You know how I feel about you,” she tells him. “You know what I want. You can’t make my choice for me. I choose to be here, with you. What do you choose, for yourself?”

The feeling that surges up in him is too big for words; he’s always been shit with words, and the more strongly he feels, the worse it is. Valeria’s line comes to mind: _Let_ _us take the world by the throat and make it give us what we desire._ But no, that’s all wrong for Kala, who can fight when she needs to but is no kind of warrior, and embraces the world instead of attacking it. It’s not what he wants to offer her, either. That isn't how the two of them should be in the world together.

He almost laughs when he realizes that the right words are there in the song that she gave to him to sing for her.

He cups her face in his two hands, gently, gently, although he knows that she isn’t as delicate as his heart insists she is, that his touch won’t bruise her, and that she’s a miracle but not a dream and won’t dissolve into mist. She mirrors the gesture, her strong, tender hands cradling his jaw, her skin so shockingly _real_ against his that he trembles as he tells her, “ _One story ended and another began_.”

When their lips meet, he understands for the first time what the movie soundtracks all try to convey with their swelling violins, because that's exactly how he feels, in his body and in his heart. The odor of jasmine rises up around them as the sun’s heat washes down—and he opens his eyes on a patio surrounded by trees, with vines curling up over the low walls.

His skin prickles with sweat in the sudden heat, squinting against the glare that paints Kala’s dark hair with brownish-red highlights and makes her skin glow. He smells curry and pollution and coffee, hears traffic and voices and kitchen-clatter from below.

Kala strokes his cheek with her thumb, gazing up into his eyes.

“You’re here,” she murmurs.

“Yes,” he says, and her mouth devours his until the patio is a hospital room again. Behind her, he sees Félix staring in fascination; when their eyes meet, Félix flashes him a thumbs-up and a salacious grin.

Kala looks to see what he’s looking at, then gives a startled, indignant squeak. If her skin were as pale as his, Wolfgang bets she’d be turning bright red.

“Tell your brother we are not just a show for his benefit,” she says, but although her embarrassment is real, the annoyance is just for show. Not even a good show, since she can’t contain her smile.

Grinning over her shoulder at Félix, Wolfgang pulls her into his arms.


End file.
